


Jack of All Trades (Master of Disguise)

by azureavian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Disguise, Drug Use, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:38:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3085985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azureavian/pseuds/azureavian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wears many disguises; he's good at disguising himself. John can always see through it. He chalks this up to living with Sherlock; he knows the way he moves, the way he tilts his head, his moods and smirks and scowls, he knows the way Sherlock stands so still when he's thinking and fidgets without cease when he's bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Bar

John was taking a much-needed night out with the chaps. He drank and played darts and watched rugby on the telly, listened as the men told tall tales about their love lives and he pretended, just for a while, there was no Sherlock Holmes. There was a woman at the bar, glancing his way now and then, nursing her fruity drink and licking the drops off her lips. She reminded John vaguely of Irene, but somehow softer, her body more welcoming, though just as angular and gorgeous.

"I dare you," Greg said with a grin.

"Wha-?" John knew he'd already had too many. He was getting into the staring at blurry images stage of drunkeness.

"I dare you to...kiss her, get her number, just walk up to the girl, Johnny me lad. She's been giving you looks all evening! If you don't, then I might just take a chance," Greg leered.

John was just drunk enough that it sounded like a good idea, while being cheerful enough if it didn't work. He stood up, carefully steadying himself on the table before walking slowly to the bar.

"Hello, my name is John. I've noticed you looking my way this evening and wondered..." The woman turned her eyes on him. The blue starbursts of the irises were as familiar as his own, the hair out of its elegant chignon would be a dark and unruly curl. Somehow the fact that this woman is no woman at all is no real surprise to him.

And (s)he had a surprisingly soft and feminine voice, "You should come home, John. I think you've had enough to drink."


	2. In the surgery

"Right then, who's next," John asked, as he washed his hands from his last patient.

The nurse hesitated, "We have a street resident, but he's insisting to see you, Doctor," she held out the papers.

"Yes, alright, let's see the insistent chap then."

The man she showed in listed to the left, smelled awfully of garbage bins and day-old dead cat. His hair was a non-descript gray and lank, his eyes runny and red-rimmed, his body giving the impression of being skeletal under many layers of (apparently rotting) clothing. His hands however, his hands were the hands of a surgeon, or a musician. They were blue-veined from the cold and smudged with things better left to the imagination, but they were Sherlock’s hands.

John waited until the nurse left the room then sat in front of his patient, “Sherlock, were you actually in need or did you just not have the patience to wait until I got home?”

“John, you are my friend, aren’t you,” The voice was rusty and rough, ending on a rasping breath and, God help him, genuinely in trouble. “John, are you my friend?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, what have you done? Are you using again,” John pushed the filthy rags up Sherlock’s arms. The old track marks were healed, faded and silver against the pale skin. Nothing as fresh as several years ago except…there it was. One fresh puncture, inside of the arm, shining needle end snapped off in the wound, torn edges showing him it was likely done _to_ Sherlock, rather than done by him.

Sherlock’s voice was slurred and he began to sink back on the couch, “Can I trust you, John, are you my friend?"

“Sherlock, hold on now. I’ve got you. Who did this to you, do you know? Do you know what they gave you? Sherlock, can you hear me?” John pushed the call button, “Nurse, I need blood for testing drawn, we have a suspected Diacetylmorphine overdose. I’ll need IV fluids and an EKG test preformed, prep for administration of Naloxone by IV once we get the test results back.”

“Right away, Doctor.”

“It’s morphine…it’s morphine. No, John, no one else, only you. John, only you,” Sherlock was too weak to fight off the nurses but John took the sample himself and hooked up the IV to make things easier on them all.

“I need a private, secure room for him, away from noise and fuss, and I’ll need for you to call a replacement for me. I need to be with him,” he certainly wasn’t about to leave Sherlock, not with evidence of a fight and bruises blooming on his wrists and arms, almost by the minute, nasty purplish-yellow with solid impact points.

Only once the room was set up and Sherlock was hooked into the machines there did John take scissors to the “disguise”. He stripped away layers of filth and rags and used clean disposable flannels dipped in a mild cleaning solution to get the grime off his skin. Once Sherlock was cleaned, he dressed him in a gown.

Sherlock said nothing, watching him calmly the whole time. It was soothing to them both and gave John time to fully inventory the damage: bruises to wrists, arms, and ribs (nothing broken, but not for lack of trying); bloody goose-egg on his head (carefully washed, watch for possible concussion, difficult to tell over the symptoms of overdose); the ragged wound on his arm (small, needle removed and saved for evidence, no stitches needed, bandage applied).

Only once all tests were done, damage treated, and medication administered did John feel calm enough to speak, “Will you tell me now, what happened?”

“I was surveilling and got caught,” the self-loathing in his voice was evident despite the weakness, “Really I’m fortunate they used morphine and not something to which my body was not previously accustomed.”

John huffed a little laugh and rested his head on the edge of the mattress, “Only you, Sherlock, would consider himself lucky to be overdosed on morphine. It’s really amazing you stayed upright long enough to be seen.”

“I knew you were a competent doctor and could be trusted enough to deal with the problem. Really it was only a matter of staying coherent until I got to you.”

John felt a light touch on his head and turned so it fell to his cheek, “And I am quite definitely your friend, Sherlock. At the very least, I am your friend. Never doubt that.”

“I do, John. I…trust you.”


	3. On the Street

John hadn’t talked to Sherlock for days, though he’d heard him moving around the kitchen and bathroom early in the morning or late at night. He checked the fridge for supplies, relieved there were no experiments going at this time. They needed milk (of course) and perhaps something for a fry-up. A walk was in order.

Just a block from Tesco (the long way ‘round, it was a beautiful day) he noted the usual punk-haired teens and prostitutes in the alley. They didn’t hang around much, usually getting chased off by the police before too long. Today’s color was a tall, tanned young man, perhaps barely out of his teens. Long orange and pink hair, earphones and mp3 player of a lurid hue, green mesh crop-top and artfully ragged jeans cut off at the thigh, purple high-tops with no socks.

The colorful young man bopped and bounced to a tune only he could hear, pausing near the alley, and then taking a turn around the intersection. The type of flexibility, with the clothes and amount of bare skin could only signal a professional, but the attitude and flair made John smile.

He was about to turn off into the store when a sudden flash of throat and jaw against the sun made him pause. “He wouldn’t. Oh no, of course he would.”

In the time it took John to go back, a dark sedan pulled up to the rent boy and he leaned through the window, bum sticking out, the gap between jeans and back showing ass crack and a distinct lack of pants.

John’s sudden arrival must have spooked the person in the sedan. The car jerked and sped off as soon as the man gathered himself back.

“What do you think you’re doing, Sherlock,” John hissed.

Sherlock tossed a multicolor mixture of dreads and long curls over his shoulder, fluttered his kohl-lined eyes in a truly disturbing manner, and pursed his glossed lips, “You talking to Paulo, gov? Or you like role-play? I can do what you like.” His accent was pure Brazilian and he looked much too young but there was no mistaking his identity.

Sherlock pulled John deeper into the alley, hands planted on the wall to either side of John’s head, leaning him against the wall, _looming_ over him. His lips were against John’s neck and he seemed less to grind himself against John’s hips than _pulsate_ into them. John began to feel distinctly out of his depth and not quite sure of what he’d gotten himself into.

“I’m on the track of possible human traffickers, John. You need not to ruin my cover,” Sherlock’s voice murmured in John’s ear, but the tone was pure steel.

John found his hands coming to rest, by reflex if not intention, on Sherlock’s bare back. He tipped his head back to whisper in his ear, “And what happens…oh God, what’re you doing…if you get picked up by some stranger? How do you keep your cover then, if you keep having to send your customers away?”

His voice was too unsteady but there was nothing to do for that now. Appearances, yes, keep up appearances so Sherlock’s cover can be kept. He ground his hips into Sherlock, “Sorry, appearances.”

“Quite,” Sherlock replied with a growl and a nip at John’s jaw. “However, who says I turn them away? It’s valuable knowledge I might need for another case. I can always just pretend they’re you.”

Shock got through to John like nothing else and he pushed Sherlock back to arm’s length, “What? Sh..Paulo, please say you’re joking. I’m… I mean you need to be careful… I didn’t know, I didn’t think…” He was so confused, and damnitall, he was hard as a rock.

Sherlock slid his hands down to John’s shoulders with a sigh and a shimmy down to kiss John’s uncovered ( _ **when did that happen, **_ John thought) chest. “John, I can assure you I am always careful in the pursuit of my profession. If I ever find myself in a situation I have a problem with, I am more than able to extricate myself. Please replace your hands; it needs to be convincing, thank you.”

Also, there is no need for you to understand or know or _do_ anything; if there is, I will let you know. Now, would you be comfortable with a blow job against this wall or do you think you can go home and wait until I can tell you the details of the case. I’m about finished with this phase.”

John leaned against the wall, breathing deep, his hands intimately against his friend’s backside, Sherlock’s lips on his skin, and he wondered how on Earth he kept getting in over his head. And, musingly, why he didn’t quite care anymore.

“No, thank you, I think I’m fine for now, I’ll just head on home then,” John kissed Sherlock firmly on the mouth, just to make it convincing (No, really). He pulled a bill out of his wallet without checking the denomination and tucked it into the back pocket of Sherlock’s artfully ragged jeans. “Just be sure to get some milk and something to fry up for dinner, right?” And with that, he buttoned his shirt, adjusted himself casually, and left.

He thought he heard past the ringing of his ears, “Perhaps later then,” and he laughed as he walked away. He’d never been so confused, but that wasn’t always a bad thing. Life with Sherlock was sometimes completely surreal but he was never bored.


	4. On the Underground

The strains of music washed over the Monday morning commute, writhing through the gray and bleary morning like notes of sunshine. It was a mix of different music, first classical then modern, hip-hop then gypsy strains, weaving together easily and seamlessly. It wasn’t until he passed the turnstile that he saw the beggar, sat cross-legged on the ledge, violin case out for coin, body wrapped in so many layers it was hard to put any description to him.

 _ **And how does a person play violin in all those layers (even in fingerless gloves) and not snag a string at the wrong time?**_ John thought. He tossed in a pound note.

The musician trilled a familiar little note as thanks and John met Sherlock’s eyes over the raggedy muffler for a moment before John continued on his way to work.


	5. In A Cab

It had been a long, long day in the surgery. It was flu season and there was some kind of new strain, resistant to the common vaccinations. It hit the old and the young in particular, very nasty. John felt like he had worked a week straight on no sleep; he could see himself sleeping for another week straight, easily. He blessed his luck as a cab pulled up on his first hail.

“Where to, gov,” the cabbie asked. He was a turbaned Sikh, his identification listing his as J.T. Noonien Singh. John stared at the name, trying to figure out what seemed wrong with it through the fog in his brain.

“Gov?” The cabbie’s voice snapped him back from his reverie. He gave his address and leaned his head back on the headrest.

The ride was uneventful, for which John gave thanks. He fumbled for his wallet as he got out, but the cabbie put his hand on John’s hand for just a moment, and then moved to touch knuckles to his forehead. It startled John and he looked up, registering Sherlock’s rare concerned look flash past the (obvious now) brown contacts.

“I’m fine, just a hard day,” John assured him.

“Go sleep. The rate at which you saw patients today would tear down a lesser doctor, John. I can’t imagine how you’ve managed to stay on your feet this long,” Sherlock paused and his customary calculating look came down like a mask, “Besides which, we have a new case, you’ll be no use at all if you don’t get your eight hours.” His tone of voice implied heavily that eight hours was a ridiculously long time to sleep, but he suffered the weaknesses of his fellow man as needs must.

John reached out as if in a dream to pat at the turban, slide his fingers down Sherlock’s face to the corner of eyes an unfamiliar brown, and thumb at the corner of his mouth. The flare of Sherlock’s nostrils and sudden dilation of his pupils were the only sign of disturbance on his face.

“Go to bed, John,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Come with me,” John could hardly believe what he was saying.

Sherlock visibly gathered himself back, calmly pushing John out of reach, “Perhaps when you are awake and aware and are in control of your faculties. For now, I have work and you need _sleep_.”

John stumbled to the door, unlocked it by only the grace of a God watching over the brainless, up the stairs, fell into his bed face-first, without even toeing off his shoes, and was asleep before he felt the pillowcase against his skin.

It could have been a dream, the feeling of a hand ghosting over his face and back in the middle of the night, but when he awoke the next morning (ok, afternoon), his shoes and coat were off, button on his pants unfastened, and blankets pulled up. He would feel weirder about that, but he decided nothing in his life was going to be normal when Sherlock Holmes was in it.


	6. At Home

John woke up to a quiet Sunday morning. He slipped on his bathrobe and went about seeing if there was anything in for breakfast. Eggs and toast sounded like just the thing, and Sherlock could usually be persuaded to eat them, even in the middle of a case.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice startled him, he hadn’t seen him curled up on himself on the sofa.

“Sherlock, good morning. How do you feel about eggs and toast for breakfast?” John’s good cheer sputtered in the face of the dark circles under Sherlock’s eyes, the pulled-at hair (a definite sign of something wrong), and the blue bathrobe ( _ **OF DOOM!**_ the voice in John’s head supplied. Amusing, but apt since Sherlock never wore that one unless something was wrong.)

“John, what do you expect of our partnership,” Sherlock asked morosely.

Breakfast being the better part of patience, patience being the better part of valor and all that, John started breakfast, “What do you mean? I don’t really expect anything, except perhaps for you to keep your nastier experiments out of the kitchen and for you not to kill me in my sleep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, if I killed you in your sleep I’d just have to find a new flat mate and where would I find one as good as you?” Sherlock picked at the pills on his bathrobe, “You have a job and have been good about paying your part of the rent. You help me in my cases and genuinely contribute worthy thought. You take care of me when I’m ill or injured, make food more often than I – keep me fed and healthy in all truth. You turned down my brother’s offer of job or money.”

If you don’t want money, position, or a different job, I’m not sure what else I can offer you and I feel myself in the rare position of wanting us on more equal footing. Sexual favors seemed to be the only thing I ever offered that you wanted but you only seem accepting when not in control of yourself.”

John cleared his throat. Since that morning in the alley, it was hard not to think of Sherlock in…other ways, “Sherlock, we’re already friends. You don’t have to buy my friendship.”

“But what happens if you get tired of being the one doing all the giving,” Sherlock looked so young now and a little lost.

Sometimes Sherlock’s best disguise was himself. John knew but sometimes forgot that people didn’t tend to try to get to know Sherlock better. Also, Sherlock didn’t really encourage people getting to know him better, and if their colleagues could see him now, they’d never recognize him. Sometimes, Sherlock seemed so much younger than his years.

John went over and sat next to Sherlock, “I was alone and damaged and so tired of my life before I met you, Sherlock. You bring surprise and excitement and my life is so much better, just having you in it,” he absently smoothed down frazzled curls.

“Now does that mean you needn’t go get milk or spring for take-away every once in awhile, no,” John smiled and struggled to find the right words, “And I certainly appreciate you thinking of me. But you should never feel that you have to do something you aren’t comfortable with and I believe you made it quite clear in the beginning of our acquaintance that you were not looking for a relationship of that type. I can accept that in certain situations where you need to maintain a character you sometimes offer certain … services that you might not otherwise mean.”

We seem to have slipped into taking care of eachother on a more personal note than would otherwise happen if we were nothing more than flat mates, but really, it’s ok. Sherlock, it’s fine,” John tried to put all his conviction into his eyes and his words, “I am comfortable with my sexuality, have been for years. I want you to feel comfortable with yours, without feeling as though emotions felt for someone must somehow lead to a physical proof.”

Sherlock smiled his brilliant smile, the one that appeared just as all the facts clicked and he _knew_ who did it and how, “John, I’ll admit that I turned away from the physical and emotional turmoil that form the passions of the hormone driven populace in favor of more intellectual pursuits at a rather early age, but I am, and have been, very comfortable with my body and the preferences therein,” he paused, pushed John back against the pillows and, there he went again, _looming_ over John like he was a pirate in a bodice-ripper, “I have never offered you anything I wasn’t willing to give you. I have never put myself in a position,” and he said this with a very un-Sherlock-like leer, “to have to offer anything I didn’t want to in order to get out of a situation in which I wasn’t comfortable. John, the only thing I have ever been unsure was of your reception.”

John had only to raise his chin a bit to brush his lips across Sherlock’s chin. He inhaled the particular scent that was all Sherlock and nosed at the pulse point beating beneath his jaw. For all that Sherlock would never let anyone see him be unsure or weak, John knew his tells and accepted that it would take more than words to assure Sherlock that he was wanted. He felt that perhaps he needed to spend a little more time making it completely plain to Sherlock just how wanted he was.

“I,” John nipped at Sherlock’s neck and spread the robe to reach lower, and oh, there is a God, Sherlock wore only boxers beneath, “am very receptive to the physical turmoil and the passions, and being particularly hormone-driven in your direction,” and John managed a sliding shimmy that would have done a younger him proud, moving him further down the couch, beneath Sherlock until he could place his lips on Sherlock’s prominent hipbones. Sherlock’s arms shook slightly but kept him propped in place at the arm of the couch while John worked his boxers down, slowly; kissing the skin that was uncovered, inch by inch.

“You are wanted,” he murmured against the pale skin, “I want you. I love you. You are my friend and, as long as it doesn’t involve entrails or horse whips, I want whatever from you that you are willing to give,” Sherlock huffed a laugh before sucking a deep breath in.

When Sherlock felt his cock engulfed in the lovely warmth of John’s mouth, his arms _almost_ waivered, but by now it was a matter of pride to keep himself in place, even if he had a white-knuckled grip on the fabric. When he finally gave voice to the small moans and gasps, it made John hum his approval, which set off its own chain reaction to orgasm, shaking Sherlock down to his core. John gently maneuvered them both to their sides, letting Sherlock finally take weight off his arms.

Sherlock opened his eyes, asking hesitantly, “Is it ok to touch you?”

John already had his trousers down around his ankles, stroking himself lazily, “It is more than ok…” Sherlock didn’t wait longer than the second word before he licked his hand to slick it up and joined John’s hand in stroking. He let John show him how hard he liked it, how fast. He smoothed his thumb through the precum and ran it down the groove to the frenulum. Sherlock was startled at his unexpectedly poetic thoughts of John’s positive attributes.

When John came, gasping Sherlock’s name, Sherlock accepted John as his weakness; he was lost. He never expected to find a man so beautiful, so fascinating, who otherwise was considered so ordinary. The world really did judge only by the cover of things, if it thought for one moment that John Watson was ordinary. More fool they who thought that Sherlock was the only master of disguise.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~This is a WIP, but I wanted to get it down here to encourage myself to finish it~~
> 
> Finally finished! Thanks for being patient, Sherlock was being stubborn in his choice of words.


End file.
